The matron noticed Vanella on the third day.
It began with a look—slow, assessing, lingering too long. Mistress Halvra was tall, broad-shouldered, her hair pulled tight as if softness offended her. She ruled the inner service halls with quiet cruelty and a ledger that never forgot.
"You," Halvra said, pointing her staff at Vanella. "Step forward."
Vanella obeyed, eyes lowered, posture deferential.
"You stand too straight," Halvra said. "Servants who stand like that tend to forget their place."
"I'll remember it," Vanella replied softly.
Halvra circled her once. "Pretty girls always think they'll be spared. They never are."
From that moment on, Vanella's assignments changed.
She was sent to scrub stone floors already clean. Made to carry water until her arms shook. Reassigned at the last minute, then punished for being late. Food portions shrank. Rest hours vanished.
Liora noticed immediately.
"She's targeting you," Liora whispered while folding linens. "Keep your head down."
"I am," Vanella said.
It wasn't enough.
One evening, Halvra watched as Vanella poured water into a basin. Her gaze sharpened. "Careful," she said. "Spill that, and I'll have you whipped for waste."
Vanella's hands steadied. A familiar pressure brushed her chest—faint, fleeting.
She ignored it.
The water did not spill.
Halvra's lips thinned. "You think restraint makes you clever."
"No, Matron," Vanella said.
Halvra leaned closer. "I think you think too much."
That night, Vanella was reassigned again—this time to corridor cleaning near the western archives. The work was heavier. The guards less patient.
And Halvra watched from a distance, waiting.
Vanella understood then.
This was not about mistakes.
It was about breaking her.